Chapter 12 OKSANA
The next morning…
We’re coming down through a strip of cloud that makes the plane’s belly rumble and some lights blink. Somewhere ahead, the desert waits with its deadly patience.
I watch Steph text Enrico—as in Enrico Sartori, another of La Famiglia’s capos-in-waiting—that he and his wife—I can’t help but smile at that—are on their way to free his brother and can't make it to the wedding in Vegas. Steph glances at me like he can’t help himself.
Like the sight of me is a question he wants an answer to but doesn’t know how to ask.
"What?" I ask a bit too casually. The truth is, he's been a bit off since we got on board his jet.
He looks at the screen, then at me, and the look is different, somber, serious. "Who are you, Ana?" he asks.
The plane rocks, the landing gear thumps.
For a beat, the world is just metal and engines and the way his face takes in the light.
The way he asks tells me he already knows.
And of course he does. I’ve dropped enough breadcrumbs that even a blind, deaf man could’ve followed them.
And he’s not just a man—he’s Stephano fucking Conti.
He runs a multibillion-dollar cyber empire built on patterns, tells, and what people don’t say.
He watched my hands on the keyboard last night. Watched how I clear a room. How my knee came up, how my weight shifted, how a man twice my size went down without a sound. He’s been cataloging me since the moment we met.
Still—he wants me to say it.
Not for confirmation. For ownership. He wants the truth from my mouth, shaped by my words, not dragged out of a data scrape or handed to him by one of his men. That matters. More than it should.
It’s a small thing.
And small things, in our world, are always the most dangerous.
I’m not the kind of woman who hands out pieces of her life.
Trust is a currency I hoard. But because he’s my husband—because the word sits between us now like a thin shield—I owe him something.
A truth. Not everything. Not the ledger of my sins, not the parts that would burn men alive, but the name at the center.
"Oksana Arsenyev."
The name feels like an armor plate. Saying it aloud makes it less of a weapon and more of a fact.
"Grigori’s sister." I watch his face for the flicker that would tell me I misread him.
But there is no surprise on his features, only relief as it washes over him slowly, like warm water.
He exhales, and the tension in his shoulders bleeds out.
"I’m glad you told me." He smiles, but it's still strained. "Would you have told me if you hadn’t already suspected I knew?" Dangerous curiosity lines his voice.
I try to measure the honesty inside me. Did I want him to know? Do I want anyone to know? Some private corner of me wants to be seen. Another corner wants to remain veiled over in lies.
"Do you really want to know?" I answer instead, because I want to make him earn it.
"Yes," he says. Not a flirt, not a tease. A flat demand wrapped in something softer.
"Does it matter?" I counter, because it’s true in the small, mercenary way of our world. The truth doesn't free you. The truth doesn't save brothers. Sometimes the truth only gets you killed faster.
He leans close, close enough that I can feel the heat at the line of his jaw. "It matters," he says, and I see the drop of something like sincerity in his eyes.
I shouldn’t think about yesterday, but it slams into me anyway: what we did in his lair, the way he touched me like he already knew my body better than I did. A single look at those thick, veined hands, at the ink wrapping his knuckles, and my pulse tries to trip over itself.
That wasn’t a quick fuck, and we both know it.
It was something else entirely. Something dangerous.
Something I’m smart enough not to acknowledge out loud.
"Probably," I allow. "Maybe not today. Maybe not tomorrow. But one day—"
"Our fortieth wedding anniversary?" he supplies with a grin that’s half mischief, half an attempt at tenderness. The idea should be ridiculous. It’s not. There’s a private, ridiculous light in his face like he’s making a joke just to see me smile.
"Baby," I say, because old habits of sarcasm fit me like gloves, "you have no idea what I’ll tell you on our fortieth." I’m teasing, but the sentence sits in the air like a promise that could be anything from a confession to a threat.
He groans, theatrical and suddenly very young, then reaches up and takes my chin in his hand. There’s no guard in the motion. There’s only the gentle authority of a man who knows exactly where to fold danger into something safe.
"I’m going to kiss you now," he says.
"That’s not how you ask permission," I retort, because manners are a language we both pretend to speak.
"If you knee me again," he murmurs, "I’ll drag you to the other end of the plane, tie you down, and then kiss you until you beg me to stop."
"You can try," my voice sounds rough even to me, because there’s a war in my chest between warning and invitation. I’m still leveling one last joke at him when his mouth finds mine.
It’s nothing like the sex I know.
What I knew was folded flat, orderly, meant to be handled and put away.
This refuses to be contained. This is geometry of a different kind. His mouth is a map, not a negotiation. The plane’s lights go soft around us; the sound of the engines becomes an undernote to everything that's happening in the small space between his mouth and mine.
The kiss takes me like a tide. It's everything I did not know I wanted: slow, claiming, and absolutely certain. I’ve had hands that pulled favors and mouths that demanded secrets.
I’ve had quick, useful lust that taught me how to barter.
But this—this undoes me with no mercy. It leaves me dizzy and feral.
My body answers before my brain gives permission, and the heat rises between my legs in a way that both embarrasses and alarms me.
One clean kiss, and the rest of the world becomes a thin paper I could burn through.
He tastes of mint and something untranslatable that makes my breath catch. When he pulls away, our foreheads stay pressed together, our breaths mingle, both of us chasing the air the other stole. My pulse hammers in my throat like a warning drum.
He lets me go first the next time, as if asking for consent in the only way he knows how.
I press my palms for a second against his chest, and I'm hit with the solid muscle under the fabric of his shirt.
For a moment, I remember why vows are dangerous.
They promise ownership without permission; they promise intimacy without a map.
For a woman like me, trust is a risk measured in blood. For a man like him, it could be deadly.
"Do you have a death wish?" I ask, breathless.
"No," he answers, low. "Just bad timing."
I laugh, small and incredulous. Then the plane shudders—a final adjustment—and an overhead speaker snaps to life, "Landing in five minutes."
Reality intrudes: concrete, dirt, men with radios, a convoy waiting under a tired sky. But under that, something has changed. Saying my name aloud, watching him listen, feeling him want me with a kind of patience that terrifies me, those things have turned into something unnamable in my chest.
"Keep your hands where I can see them," I tell him, because I’m braver now. For the moment, at least, I mean it.
He smiles like he knows I don’t fully mean it. "Only if you keep yours where I can follow."
The plane bites into the runway; the desert breathes around us.
Ahead: men, guns, and the hunt for Nico.
Behind: a long road of lies and a small new truth tucked into the hollow between us.
I close my eyes for a second, tasting him, and tell myself we will both be clever enough to survive whatever comes next.
I look over the small army Stephano has amassed. Twenty vehicles, all Hummers, some with mounted high-caliber machine guns, a hundred heavily armed men and women in tight black clothing, baking under the merciless sun.
A man approaches. "Ettoro, good to see you," Steph greets him.
"Boss," he greets back, eyeing me curiously.
"Metelitsa," Steph introduces me, and I'm surprised by the pride I hear in his voice. "My wife."
At some point, we should probably let go of the husband-wife charade, but for the time being, we both enjoy it a bit too much.
Ettoro's eyes widen as he takes me in, and I return his gaze with the same expression I've used to send men to their graves. He doesn't pale, but he looks… satisfyingly wary.
"Pleasure," he manages. Steph pounds him on the back, and we move toward a canopy that has been pitched in the middle of the desert.
Inside, a map is spread on a table; no, that's not entirely true, the table is a giant tablet, projecting a map.
Alright. Color me impressed. Steph grins at me, and I nod appreciatively, granting him the moment.
The desert presses at the tent like a thing that wants to be let in. Heat bleeds through the canvas; the sun is a clean fist. A table with a bowl of fruit and ice-cold water sits like an apology in the middle of the shade. The water beads and slides; the fruit smells like summer.
No fans. Not a single one is humming against the heat.
Steph hasn’t furnished us with comforts he doesn’t expect his people to have.
He stands with them in the same dust and the same sun, sleeves rolled, shirt the same as the men by the cars.
It’s small, but it lands. Respect is not a thing he hands out like candy.
I nod to the man who brought the water; his nod goes back like a currency. I like him more for it.